Fantasies
by rubberbird
Summary: Jim/Sherlock. Jim Moriarty has many fantasies, some of which Sherlock would prefer not to be the object of. Slash.


Title: Fantasies

Pairing: Sherlock/Jim

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Slash, dom/sub relationship, cross-dressing, brief bit of spanking, some violence, graphic sexual content.

A/Ns: Originally written for Plain-Jane-Doe.

Disclaimer: All property of the BBC.

**Fantasies**

Sherlock lit a cigarette and exhaled out of the smudged, open window. He traced a finger along a crack that had been crudely mended with yellowing sellotape in the glass. Down below, down some five metres was a damp and filthy car park.

He spied a lone streetwalker ambling down the opposite end, close to the road. Cars were passing, occasionally throwing shards of light down her frail, tottering figure. She was wearing a faded leopard print coat and a skirt that barely peeked out from underneath it. Her bare legs were thin and bruised.

He watched as a light blue Ford slowed down beside her, dimming his lights as though it would throw a shield of darkness over his intentions. He watched her bend in through the open passenger window, her barely present skirt hitching up her battered legs.

There was a soft knock on the door behind him. Sherlock dropped the cigarette butt out of the window. It landed in a shallow puddle beneath the window below. He ducked back in, hastily pulling the curtains across, and crossed the poorly lit room.

It was a plain and miserable room. The walls were painted a sickly shade of yellow and the carpet was filthy; mysterious stains peppered it in numerous shades of green, yellow and, most disturbingly, red. Along the opposite wall there was a single picture above a barren wooden desk. It was a cheap and nasty print of a light house above a turbulent white sea.

Sherlock stared at it and then turned to fix his eyes on the door. There was a tiny, bronze hole for looking through. Sherlock was tempted to look through it to make sure he hadn't been duped, as he had so many times before, but the thought of pressing his eye against that filthy, germ ridden surface was enough to deter him.

He glanced at himself in the tarnished full-length mirror nailed haphazardly to the inside of the empty pine wardrobe. A pale, lean, dark-haired businessman stared back. The suit was a little loose around the knees and waist, and a little short at the ankles, revealing some three inches of black sock around a slender ankle. But it had been the best he could do on short notice.

He turned back to the door, as there was another knock: this one harder and more impatient than the first. He smirked slightly to himself and finally opened it.

He took in the teetering figure of the shorter man, as he stared up and down the dingy corridor behind him, clutching a coat around him that obscured his body down to the ankles. His hair was slightly ruffled from the unsheltered walk from the car to the motel room. Sherlock never saw the car he came in. He must have parked it a safe distance away, somewhere he could get to without Sherlock tracking him.

He turned to look at him, his face obscured by the almost non-existent lighting outside. He brushed past Sherlock, wobbling a little on his ungainly footwear. Sherlock closed the door and turned to him. Jim's pale flesh was still a little flushed from the cold. He was watching Sherlock with the same dark-eyed defiance he always did, wordlessly confident, cocky. And yet how he was _dressed_.

Sherlock glanced down at the black stiletto shoes on his feet. They were higher than the pair he'd worn the last time they'd met, at least four inches this time. He was almost taller than Sherlock in those shoes.

"You took your time," Sherlock said curtly, loosening the buttons on his coat. It was getting a little stuffy in that foul, little motel room.

Jim touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth in a mockingly coquettish manner and turned to the bed. "You always choose the most charming locations."

Sherlock glanced at the bed beyond him. It looked like one, good jump would end it, but Sherlock had slept in worse places. He supposed Jim Moriarty was not used to "roughing it" per se. But that was the very least of his concerns. He had a hunch- and his hunches were very rarely wrong- that Jim would have fornicated with him in a rubbish skip if he had requested it. _Demanded _it.

Sherlock licked his lips. They had become extremely dry. Jim had wandered over to the window and was peering out past the curtains. He ran a finger along the windowsill and turned to Sherlock with a sneer. Ash tumbled down off his finger and onto the carpet.

"You've been living under the thumb of that blonde taskmaster for too long."

Sherlock dropped his coat on the back of the desk chair and loosened his tie. "Get on the bed."

Jim cocked his head, the obscene smear of lipstick across his mouth messy and inaccurate, the kohl around his eyes smudged and smoky. "Does he make you take off your shoes before you go in the house too?"

Sherlock growled softly and dropped his tie without taking his eyes off of Jim. "Take off your coat and get on the bed. Before I make you."

Jim's eyes fluttered, his lips loosened a little on their own accord. "Big words from such a small man," he said, but the insult was hollow.

He finally did as he was told while Sherlock watched on. He knelt on the bed, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his ridiculously large coat. He let it slide down his delicate shoulders, fixing Sherlock with dark, unreadable orbs. His torso was bare and almost white. He was slim, and gently muscular. His nipples were dark and erect, practically begging for attention.

He looked away as he dropped the coat off his shoulders. It slid limply down his arms and landed softly around him, like a plaid puddle on the ugly bed covers. There was beeline of dark hair leading from his navel down to the band of cheap, lace trimmed underwear. They were always cheap. The sort of lingerie one could buy in any trashy department store. Jim could have afforded anything he wanted, but he always chose the cheapest, nastiest lingerie he could find. It was all a part of their game. No matter how small the detail, it mattered.

Sherlock strode across, yanking the coat away from him and depositing it unceremoniously on the floor. He ran his eyes up and down Jim's body, helpless against the hungry longing that came in furious spurts when Jim was presented before him in this state.

Jim was panting. He could have had Sherlock exactly where he wanted him. If he had been able to control himself, but Sherlock could tell from the already protruding bulge against his underwear that he could not.

"You dirty slut," Sherlock hissed, grabbing Jim's chin between his finger and thumb and forcing him to look up at him. "Look at you."

Jim struggled to catch his breath as he was jerked roughly up. Sherlock ran a hand down his smooth torso to the bulge underneath the lacy black cotton. He palmed it, staring hard at Jim's faltering facial features.

"One touch and you're coming apart," Sherlock breathed. "Look at you."

Jim fixed his eyes on him under his eyelids. Sherlock knew he was being cruel. Everything about their meetings was created purely to ensure Jim came apart at the seams within seconds. Sherlock felt a sickening thrill at the fact that he knew more about London's most devious criminal than anyone else ever would.

"Stay here," Sherlock said disdainfully, letting him go and turning on his heel. Jim panted after him, his eyes heated. "Try not to touch yourself for five seconds."

He walked across to his coat flung across the back of the desk chair. With his back to Jim he could betray to the blank wall opposite the look of feverish arousal that was always so close to breaking onto his face whenever he was face to face with Jim. So breakable, so desperate. So desperate for _him_.

He fumbled inside the pocket of his coat. He could feel that he was growing damp under the business shirt. He was getting sweaty underneath the layers. He pulled out the tube of lubricant, his hand gently trembling. He turned the tube over in his hand. Sometimes they used it. Mostly they didn't. Sherlock had once tried to force Jim to use it and had only managed to get himself a black eye that hadn't faded for weeks.

He felt a clammy hand on his shoulder and turned sharply to find himself almost nose to nose with Jim's crudely made-up face. Sherlock dropped the lubricant onto the desk behind him. He touched Jim's bare waist. Jim squirmed slightly under his touch.

He tilted his mouth up to Sherlock's. His breath was warm and he was tinged with a sweet smelling perfume. Sherlock leant forward, but before he could feel Jim's lips against his Jim had pushed a knee hard between his legs. He shoved him roughly backwards into the door. Sherlock hit it with a surprised cry and found his hands immediately pinned above his head. Jim wobbled a little on his inelegant heels and leant against him for balance. For such a small, slim man he was strong. Sherlock knew that.

"Tell me, Sherlock," he hissed, his mouth teasingly close to Sherlock's and his body pressed so hard against Sherlock's he could hardly breathe. "Tell me. How does it feel to need me? Need me more than _anyone. _More than that stupid, incompetent policeman. More than that clinging shrew of a housekeeper. More than that doe-eyed doctor."

"You've always been such a jealous, little boy," Sherlock gasped, tugging ineffectually at his wrists. "You know you only mean one thing to me."

Jim smiled cruelly. "Likewise, Sherlock."

He mashed his mouth against Sherlock's. Sherlock forced Jim's lips open hard and roughly took ownership of what was his, while Jim struggled back against him, his fingertips unconsciously loosening on Sherlock's wrists.

Sherlock felt it. He wrenched his hands from Jim's grip and twisted him around to slam him hard against the wall. Jim cried out in pain. Sherlock forced him up onto his hips. Jim grasped at his shoulders, his crotch pressed flush against Sherlock's. His cock was straining monstrously against the confines of his trousers, throbbing in aching spurts.

Jim's mouth was open, he was gulping for air. The lipstick was smeared across his mouth from their rough kiss. He was furiously flushed. "I don't care what you do with him," he gasped. "I just hate missing out on a good thing. We should invite him one day. I'd love to see that blonde head servicing me. Down on his knees like the slavish whore he is."

Sherlock growled, slamming Jim harder against the wall and tightening his grip on Jim's hips. Jim smirked and wrapped his legs more tightly around Sherlock's hips, baring his lipstick stained teeth at him. "Don't pretend like you've never thought about it."

"Shut up." Sherlock silenced him with another kiss, pinning Jim's wrists to the wall the way his had been against the door moments before. He could feel the waxy lipstick under his mouth, staining his lips.

Jim clutched harder onto his shoulders, his nails piercing his skin through his shirt. He made a good show of fighting back against Sherlock, but everything he did was contrary to what Sherlock knew he wanted, could sense he wanted. Sherlock buried his tongue deep inside of Jim's mouth, feeling an excited jolt at the sensation of Jim choking against him.

He pulled away and loosened his grip on Jim's wrists. He took a step back and let him tumble unceremoniously to the floor. He lost his footing on his rickety high heels and slumped to his knees in front of him.

Sherlock went to the bed, turning his back on the fallen murderer. "Come and do your job."

He sat on the end of the bed. Jim crawled towards him, slipping in an ungainly fashion on the carpet. His stockings were laddered and held up by fraying suspenders. They looked very black against the flawless white flesh of his thighs. He looked up at him under his sooty eyelashes, his head perfectly level with Sherlock's crotch.

"You're going to put that smart mouth of yours to good use," Sherlock said, with a brief, humourless smile. " Aren't you?"

"Dirty bastard," Jim spat, his eyes glinting.

Sherlock gripped him by his hair, wrenching him up level with him. "What are you?"

Jim stared back at him defiantly, smudged and filthy with makeup. He said nothing.

Sherlock tightened his grip on Jim's hair until he gasped. "What are you?" he said, gritting his teeth.

"A whore," Jim gasped finally. "Your whore." His eyes flashed with barely suppressed excitement. Sherlock twisted his fingers into Jim's hair, listening with relish to the miniscule sound of pain he made.

"Good boy," he said silkily, dropping him down again.

Jim slumped onto his knees; his ruined mouth again level with Sherlock's crotch. Sherlock palmed at the bulge behind the starchy layer of grey cotton. Jim watched him, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's hand softly rubbing at his own erection.

"Do you want it then?" Sherlock said thickly, barely keeping from choking on the arousal that felt like it was rising up his throat. "Do you want to suck me off?"

Jim's eyes wavered up to fix on his. In the miserable light of the motel's single bare bulb it was hard to see where the kohl ended and his eyes began. "Yes," he said, almost sullenly. Like a sulky teenager being brought reluctantly to heel.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, still massaging his erection with his fingertips. "Yes, what?" He lifted his foot to nudge Jim's chin with the toe of the patent leather business shoe.

He'd bought them for 30 pounds from a bargain shoe shop he'd walked past with John a few weeks beforehand. They'd been sitting in his wardrobe ever since. He had managed to shrug off John's curious questions with a few vague descriptions of their necessity for an unspecified case.

Jim smiled up at him. He was perhaps the only person Sherlock knew who could be on his knees in nothing but a pair of lace briefs, stockings and platforms and pull off that smile. Self-assured, knowing, arrogant: like he was looking right into Sherlock's skull, and right through. "Cheap plastic shoes. I always knew you had no class, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave his chin a sharp nudge with his foot. "Show me what real class is then, Jim."

Jim rested his hands on Sherlock's thighs and lowered his mouth to the brass coloured zip poking out of the protruding crotch of Sherlock's trousers. He clasped it between his teeth, clumsily tugging it down inch by inch, wavering over every bump. "You're doing that on purpose," Sherlock growled, hand tightening in Jim's clean, soft hair.

Jim hummed against his groin, teeth still tight on the zipper as he guided it torturously over the ridge of Sherlock's erection. Sherlock gritted his teeth. Jim never played fair.

"Hurry up," he snapped, jerking Jim's head forward.

Jim wobbled on his knees, almost losing his balance. He struggled to straighten up; he'd left lipstick marks on Sherlock's trousers. "Hot and bothered, Sherlock?"

Sherlock tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. A dry choke left his lips before he could stop it. Jim smirked widely. He slid his hands slowly up Sherlock's thighs and up his torso. Sherlock squirmed slightly on the bed. He yanked Jim's head upwards.

Jim stared up at him, the smirk creeping further across his mouth. He tore the remainder of Sherlock's zipper open with his hand. He hooked his fingers into the band of Sherlock's trousers and roughly tore them down his thighs, paying no heed to the belt secured tightly around the waist. The only thing that ensured they didn't slide down to his knees when he walked.

Sherlock cried out in pain. Jim's eyes glinted triumphantly and he looked down towards the bulge straining against the material of black cotton. "You always have the most boring underclothes," Jim said, almost conversationally. He held his palm against the throbbing head of Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock shuddered, trying to keep from bucking his hips against him. "Bastard," he hissed.

He gave Jim a sharp kick against his stomach. It wasn't hard, but it was enough to unbalance him and send him toppling backwards onto the carpet. His legs sprawled apart, and for the first time that evening Jim's own desperation was fully on display.

Sherlock ran his eyes hungrily up Jim's slender, nylon clad legs. The suspenders were cutting into his thighs. He could see they were too tight; every time he moved the straps tightened and the buckles imbedded deeper in his flesh. He traced them up to a thick band of lace lined cotton sitting across his hips, above the cheap underwear.

He didn't move from his place on the floor, legs parted and eyes fixed on Sherlock. The mocking glow had extinguished from his eyes. He was watching Sherlock with the expression of a trapped wild animal, deciding whether to retreat or attack.

Sherlock straightened up off the bed, yanking his trousers back up around his hips. He stood above the fallen criminal. The rush of power, of control seeped into his mind. Jim looked so fragile, so_owned_ when he was on the floor. The consulting criminal needed him to own him, needed him to use him up until Jim had no notion of himself, just of what he was: Sherlock's. Always Sherlock's.

If Sherlock didn't take control of him, Jim would keep pushing and pushing, demanding more and more from him until he took the control the way Jim wanted him to.

Sherlock slid a foot between Jim's thighs, massaging his hardness with the sole of his shoe. Jim's eyelids fluttered, he rolled his hips up, pinning his crotch against Sherlock's shoe. "Oooh, yes. I'm dirty. I'm _bad_. I need to be disciplined."

He struggled up onto his knees, gripping Sherlock's trousers to keep his balance. Sherlock sneered at him. "Beg for it."

He jerked his knee out. It caught Jim in the jaw and sent him tumbling back onto his back. He blinked up at him, touching the place Sherlock had struck him. He licked the corner of his mouth. The lipstick had created a blood red stain around his lips, giving him a strangely clownish look.

"Sherlock-" he began, pouting.

"Beg for it," Sherlock barked, gripping him by his hair and wrenching him upright.

Jim gasped. He didn't struggle, staring up at Sherlock hazily. "Beg for what?" he breathed, his voice betraying the tiniest tremor.

Sherlock stared down past the smaller man's crudely made-up face to the backs of his legs, the seams of his laddered stockings, the worn soles of his heeled shoes. He slid his fingers deeper into Jim's hair, smoothly and gently. He let it slide through his fingers, let it caress him.

"Beg for the privilege to suck my cock," he growled, tightening his hand around Jim's hair.

Jim's lips slipped open. The desire was pumping thickly and heatedly through his eyes. At Sherlock's words, he made a shuddery little groan. "Sh-Sherlock-"

Sherlock twisted his hands around Jim's hair until he wrenched a pained gasp from him, as he tried fruitlessly to yank his head from his grasp. "Go on. You can. I know you can. Beg for it. You love begging for it. You love begging for my cock. Tell me, _tell me_."

Jim moaned, his hands slipping from where they had been supporting him on Sherlock's legs and his mouth colliding with Sherlock's thigh. He slid his hands up to Sherlock's belt and slipped his fingers inside. "Please, Sherlock," he said softly, his mouth sticky against Sherlock's trousers. "Please... please let me suck you."

Sherlock could have come right there and then at the sound of Jim's broken, wanton words, but somehow he kept his control. He nicked Jim's chin with a finger. "Be gentle this time, Jim. Suits cost money."

Jim's head jerked up towards him, lips curling into a defiant sneer so rapidly that it almost took Sherlock's breath away. "Don't play games with me. I know it's his."

Sherlock watched him, too taken aback for a moment to reply. His grip unconsciously loosened in Jim's hair. "What?"

Jim lowered his eyes to fix on the buckle of Sherlock's belt. He leant forward and pressed his lips against the curve of Sherlock's thigh again. Sherlock jumped. He could feel Jim's mouth through the material of the ill-fitting trousers. "What?" he said again, vaguely.

A shock of pain suddenly jolted through him. He gasped in surprise, and realised abruptly that Jim had bitten him. Through the material of his trousers on the delicate skin on the inside of his thigh. And it hadn't been a gentle bite either.

"What is your problem?" he snapped. He unwrapped himself from Jim's arms, which had wrapped themselves around his legs and shoved him away.

Jim tottered a little, but managed to stay upright. He narrowed his dark eyes up at him. One hand was still clasping the material of Sherlock's trousers. "Does he wonder why you borrow his clothes?" he said softly, eyes fluttering down to the slightly too loose, too short trousers. "Does he wonder why you dress like you're going somewhere _special_, but won't tell him where you're going?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Leave him out of it."

"And after we fuck," Jim said in a song-song voice, curling one of his arms back around Sherlock's leg, "when you go home to him, do you give them back to him? Or do you wash them first? Wouldn't want him to smell the perfume, see the lipstick. He might think the worst-"

"What could be worse than sleeping with a nasty, little slut like you?" Sherlock spat. He felt frozen where he was, torn between fury at Jim's probing tone and a throbbing, intense lust.

Jim smiled at Sherlock's poisonous tone. If Sherlock had ever expected to see a flicker of hurt in those cold, dark eyes he had learnt to stop searching for it. Jim was too apt at eclipsing his true emotions and replacing them with the dancing, mocking gestures he chose to display to the world.

Sherlock undid his belt, his fingers slipping a little on the cheap, shiny material. He could feel Jim watching him, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's fingers while he worked. He fumbled with the buttons on his fly, cursing the person who thought it had been a good idea to attach both buttons _and_ a zipper to the trousers.

Finally, he managed to wrench them down his thighs. He gripped Jim hard by the roots of his hair and yanked his head towards the bulge protruding against the material of his plain briefs. With his free hand he yanked them down.

The cold air rushed against his loins, mingling with Jim's warm breath. Jim released a soft, almost keening sigh and it caressed Sherlock's bare cock. "Suck me." It wasn't a request, and Jim seemed to realise it.

His eyes flickered up to rest on Sherlock's. His fingers, smooth from a lifetime of not getting his hands dirty, ghosted up the underside of Sherlock's shaft. Sherlock rolled his hips, swallowing the sounds in his throat. He had learnt that Jim fed off his reactions like a leech off blood; every flicker of emotion he made the mistake of omitting was lapped up by Jim in a hungry fervour.

Jim grazed his fingertips up to the dark, swollen head of Sherlock's cock. It was already oozing pre-cum. Sherlock had learnt to allow his mind to go numb, to go blank while he stood there above Jim and let him play with him, legs apart and clothes pooled around his knees.

It had been intensely embarrassing the first few times, but gradually the role had become easier to step into. Jim seemed to have sensed his discomfort and fed on it mercilessly, but his own evident desperation in the fantasy had overridden his natural desire to scorn Sherlock's blatant lack of sexual experience.

When they had first- Sherlock wasn't quite certain what to label their encounters as yet. He had experimented with "fucking", but profanity was not something that came easily to him. "Screwing" was less abrasive, but it didn't seem to do justice to whatever their impossibly twisted relationship entailed. "Making love" was, of course, out of the question. "Love" was not a word thrown about lightly by either a high-functioning sociopath or his psychopathic lover. "Love" was not something he cared to dabble in with Jim Moriarty. Or anyone else for that matter.

So when they had first fornicated (that was as good a word as any) he had been completely overwhelmed by the virgin sensations laying siege to his cold and untouched body. Jim took no mercy on him. But since then Sherlock had had time to acquaint himself with Jim Moriarty's weaknesses. Of which there were many. And Sherlock took great pleasure in knowing that he might be the only person in the world who had the closeness and perception to be able to unravel Moriarty's mind like a spool of cotton.

Sherlock was jerked back to the present by a none-too-gentle squeeze of his nether regions by Jim's petite, velvety hand. Sherlock jerked his head down to look at him. Jim sent him a look between a pout and a glare. He didn't like to be ignored.

Jim wanted Sherlock's every thought, every movement to be directed towards him. A normal person would find it suffocating to find themselves the centre of another person's existence, but Jim Moriarty had no notion of this. Sherlock knew it. Sherlock knew what he wanted when they were together: utter devotion. But more than that. Obsession. He wanted Sherlock to be obsessed with him, and he knew he had already achieved that almost perfectly.

Jim gave a syrupy, unconvincing laugh. "Daydreaming, are we, my dear?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and lifted Jim's face towards his with a finger. "I didn't ask you to speak. I have only one use for that pretty, little mouth."

Jim did have a pretty mouth. Past the smear of lipstick it was rosy, plump, and so often forming some poisonous, crooning remark. Sherlock had studied every inch of Jim Moriarty's face and still the delicate lines, the softness and beauty to it took him constantly off guard. That something so rotten could be so lovely was baffling to him.

Jim lowered his eyelashes, the smallest of smirks flitting across that inexplicable mouth. He said nothing, though there were a hundred words in that tiny, telling gesture. Silently he opened his mouth and, without raising his eyes to meet Sherlock's, ran a shuddery tongue up the underside of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock's figure tautened with a barely contained choke. He tightened his hand under Jim's smooth, cold chin.

Jim took the unspoken command and raised one hand to form a pale O around the base of Sherlock's damp shaft. Sherlock had never felt so desperate for release. He had never needed Jim's hands on him so badly. He was close to breaking their fantasy, their game and just begging for Jim to give him what he needed. But that would be admitting defeat, and Sherlock would never do that.

Jim teased him with his tongue, with his mouth, flitting his tongue across the aching crown, lapping up the pre-cum with a desperation akin to a parched man taking water from an oasis. He moved his hands up and down Sherlock's length, caressing him and rubbing him. And he made sounds.

Such calculated sounds. Deep, wanton moans. Desperate, little gasps. All of them designed to drive Sherlock hopelessly to the edge. He rocked on his laddered stockings, sometimes losing his balance and abruptly pressing his face against Sherlock's bare thigh, leaving smears of red behind. His hands slid up Sherlock's thighs, fingers travelling over his skin like silk.

Sherlock released his chin and instead buried it back in the depths of Jim's hair. Gently this time. He didn't want to hinder Jim's progress below. He watched him out of the corner of his eye, watched how he made a display of himself, writhing and moaning and putting his mouth all over Sherlock's cock like some sort of mad dog at a bone. It was all theatrics. Jim adored being dramatic. Sherlock would never admit to just how it burned him up inside to watch Jim grovel below him, playing the whore and getting harder and hotter from the game as every moment passed.

"Sherlock," he gasped, breaking away to stare up at Sherlock, eyes smouldering wildly with intense lust. "Sherlock- I- I'm a bad- bad boy- So low- So _dirty_." He said the last word in barely more than an animal growl.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip with vicious ferocity to stop the sounds he almost made at the sight of Jim's undoing. "Yes," he said instead, summoning as much self-control as he could find within his ruined defences. "Yes. You are. Dirty... dirty little whore. Lowest of the l-low. You should be _punished_ for the sluttish way you carry on."

Jim moaned wantonly, his eyes fluttering closed with an expression that almost brought Sherlock to his knees. "Dirty... naughty..." he whimpered to himself, when he returned his attentions back to the task at hand.

Sherlock was breathing furiously now, it was a task to disguise just how close to release he was. The hand buried in Jim's soft hair was clasping and unclasping furiously, but he didn't dare tighten his grip.

Jim took his length almost hungrily into his mouth. Sherlock exhaled desperately. "P-please-" he gasped, without meaning to.

Jim made a helpless sound against him, his mouth sealed with Sherlock's cock. Sherlock struggled to look down, and past Jim's bobbing head, saw plainly the erection protruding obscenely through the too thin, too flimsy material of Jim's lace underwear. He had made himself wet, he was so aroused.

Sherlock screwed up his eyes tight. Jim's mouth was hot and warm around him, around the sensitive glans of his sex and Jim's hands had begun to move southward. He began to fondle the twin velvety sacs aching for attention down below, and then he sank deeper, mercilessly plunging his fingers in where he knew more experienced men than Sherlock often came undone.

Sherlock cried out, his hand clamping hard into Jim's hair. He said Jim's name in a husky sob as he came in violent spurts into Jim's waiting mouth. He jerked his hips into Jim's mouth, fucking him, riding out the paralyzing orgasm.

For a few long moments he stood there in silence, eyes tightly sealed and every breath racking his body. Jim didn't move beneath him, though Sherlock could hear him panting and licking at his own mouth, swallowing Sherlock's seed and cleaning it away from his lips. Sherlock took a shuddery breath.

He finally brought himself to open his eyes and look at Jim. He was an utter mess. A mess of flushed pink cheeks, sweaty limbs, hair tousled beyond recognition, mouth ajar, features smeared with melting makeup, collapsed into a panting, shuddering heap at Sherlock's feet in ruined stockings and obscenely dampened underwear.

Sherlock tucked himself back into his underwear and trousers, yanking them back up and hastily refastening the buttons and belt. He was soaked through with perspiration. He nudged the sole of Jim's high-heel shoe. Jim looked up at him, mouth open and eyes nothing less than desperate.

"Horny bastard," he gasped, not quite achieving his usual teasing tone.

Sherlock let out a loud tut. "Look at you. You've made yourself wet with the mere _thought _of being bent over. Pathetic."

Jim watched him intently, his slender, pale form gently jerking with his bodily breaths. He didn't speak. He seemed to be waiting in intense anticipation for Sherlock to speak again, vehemently drinking in the detective's words.

"Stand up," Sherlock spat, the role coming easier to him now that he was marginally sated and Jim was almost crying with the need for release. "Let me look at you."

Jim crawled to his hands and knees and then, knees buckling, and wobbling violently on the unfamiliar footwear, he stumbled to his feet. Sherlock looked at him from head to toe. He looked at his perfect features, the hair he had ruined of its usual perfection, the torso of almost flawless white, the thin, broad shoulders, the dark, wiry hair leading from his navel to the band of his cheap underwear, bulging obscenely and marred by a dark patch of wet, the suspenders pressing a little too tightly into his thighs, the slim legs clad in threadbare, black stockings, straining against the buckles supporting them and the ridiculous platform shoes, tottering and wobbling on the ugly motel carpet.

"What a state," he said in a low voice, shaking his head with another tut. He ignored the heat and blood rushing furiously towards his crotch at the mere sight of Jim Moriarty reduced thus. "What would your little minions think if they could see you now?"

Jim closed his eyes, a strange, taut expression passing over his features. Sherlock knew what he was thinking. The degradation, the humiliation; it was all a part of Jim's fantasy. The lower he brought himself, the more euphoric his release. Sherlock took pleasure, great pleasure, in bringing him as low as a human being could wish to be.

"You worthless whore," he said softly. "You should be punished."

Jim's knees buckled. "Sh-Sherlock-" he breathed.

Sherlock sank down on the end of the motel bed and spread his legs a few inches apart. Jim didn't move. A strange expression had come across his face. If Sherlock didn't know any better- and he deeply hoped he did- there was a tinge of... of _fear_ in Jim's expression, as though Jim was suddenly afraid of the power he was granting Sherlock.

"Don't make me force you, Jim," Sherlock said quietly, his eyes firm on his.

Jim swallowed, taking a faltering step towards him and almost immediately collapsing to his knees. He looked up at Sherlock from the floor, his eyes dark and bright and his features now almost consumed by pure, unadulterated arousal. An arousal that left no room for any other emotion.

Sherlock thought perhaps he had imagined the look of uncertainty as Jim crawled across towards him, his limbs weak and awkward. He reached him and climbed messily onto his lap, almost breaking all of the toes in Sherlock's left foot by "accidentally" planting his stiletto on Sherlock's shoe. Sherlock eventually took him firmly by the waist and deposited him where he wanted him, ignoring Jim's half-hearted protests.

He could feel Jim's stiff erection pressed against his leg. Jim whimpered softly, rubbing himself a little against Sherlock to garner some much needed friction. "That's enough of that," Sherlock said sharply, moving his leg an inch to the left and out of Jim's desperate reach.

"You... have me... right where you want me, Sherlock," Jim said, in between shuddery pants. "Go on. Give into that urge. Give into that urge to _degrade _me. I know it's in that... that dull facade. Show me just what Sherlock Holmes is capable of, of destroying a man while he's at his lowest."

Sherlock's heart almost stopped in his chest. Jim was writhing slightly on his lap. He was gripping onto one of his legs; the other arm was thrown across the bed, the delicately pale limb contrasting wildly against the maroon bed covers. Jim's legs were curled up to rest his ankles on the bed. It didn't look like a comfortable position at all to Sherlock. He gently moved a hand up Jim's leg, starting at the back of his knee and moving up to the gentle mound of his arse below the flimsy underwear. He pulled the cotton material back, leaving Jim's ivory coloured buttock fully on display.

Jim arched his back a barely noticeable few inches against him, the breath catching in his throat.

Sherlock inhaled and brought his palm down against Jim's flesh. It was impossible to tell if Jim had been expecting the blow. He gave a helpless writhe on Sherlock's lap and a barely audible whimper. Sherlock raised his hand again and brought it down again, marvelling in how red Jim's flesh had already flared after the first and only blow.

He wasn't hitting very hard, barely more than a light slap and he could feel Jim's frustration.

"Harder!" he said in a shrill, thick voice.

Sherlock stared at the back of his dark head and tried to obey. He entered an almost methodical rhythm. Hitting and waiting and listening to Jim's moans and whimpers. Hitting and waiting and listening to see if Jim wanted him to stop. But all he could gather was that Jim wanted more and more and _more_. Jim was trying to rub himself against him, trying to thrust against him and every blow made him arch and twist and beg for release.

Soon his palm began to hurt and Jim's skin was glowing almost ruby red. His throat began to throb. Jim had stopped writhing and was almost limp on his lap, his back hunched and his breathing haggard. It wasn't until Sherlock stopped for a moment to try and stop the pins and needles that had erupted in his hand that he felt Jim's body shudder against him.

"Jim?" he said sharply, lowering his hand. He grasped the smaller man by the waist and forcefully turned him over.

Jim slid to his knees, trying to twist out of Sherlock's grip and shielding his face with his hands. Sherlock felt rigid with shock at the sight of Jim's face.

Jim began to sob, and then began to scream. He wrenched himself out of Sherlock's grasp and whirled backwards, almost completely losing his balance. "Hurt me!" he spat. "I like it! I want it! Don't be a weak, pathetic little _coward!_ Hurt me!"

He collapsed to his knees in front of Sherlock, dragging Sherlock's hand up to the level of his eyes. Sherlock stared at him; Jim's delicate features were lost behind a wild river of mascara.

"_Hit me_," Jim screamed hoarsely, holding Sherlock's hand to his face.

Sherlock's hand was limp in his grip. He watched him hold it to his sticky, damp cheek for a moment and then drop it, collapsing to the floor and crawling away, his body wracking with sobs again. Sherlock stood.

He stared at the fallen psychopath, and then turned towards the door. This game had gone too far. Perhaps because it had never been just a game to Jim. "I'm leaving," Sherlock said, needlessly.

And even as he said the words, a curious and inexplicable burst of agony came into his chest. He had to stop and place a hand across his heart to steady himself and make sure that he wasn't suffering a heart attack. But no, this hadn't been the pain of a malady. He knew that. But he almost could have wished it had been.

He turned slowly back towards Jim's collapsed figure. He was watching him, his eyes unreadable beyond the mess of kohl and mascara. He was calm again. As rapidly as the hysteria had come, it had departed. Leaving him cold and blank.

Sherlock wordlessly walked towards him. Jim flinched when he reached him, as though he expected Sherlock to make good on his demand and hit him. Sherlock slid an arm under Jim's knees and another around his torso. Jim didn't struggle, but he stared at him wildly, as though trying to decide what motive was behind Sherlock's actions.

Sherlock wasn't a particularly strong or well-built man and Jim was heavier than he looked, but somehow he managed to struggle to the bed without dropping him on the floor. He placed him down as gently as he could manage. Jim turned his face away from him, an angry heat running through his eyes, as though Sherlock's kindness was far more offensive than his taunts and abuse.

"Don't pity me, Sherlock," he growled. "The last thing in this world I need is _your_ pity. You're nothing more than a plaything to me, do you hear? Nothing more."

His words were frayed. His voice trembled, and almost failed him. Sherlock watched him uncertainly. "We had a deal, Jim," he said in a low voice. "I kept my part of the deal."

Jim looked at him, smiling bitterly. "I know. It's just two people fucking. No feelings involved. Do you think I need a warning against _feelings_? Think of whom you're talking to, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't reply. He looked down to Jim's scantily clad legs. He stared at them in silence for a moment and then crawled down to the end of the bed and touched the buckle on Jim's shoe.

Jim jerked and looked at him. "What are you doing?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock undid the buckle and slid the stiletto off Jim's foot. He dropped it off the side of the bed and leant across and did the same to the other. Jim watched him silently, his face blank beyond the stains of his tears.

"Sherlock, stop," he said coldly, looking away from him.

Sherlock ignored him and edged up a few inches to undo the buckles of the suspenders cutting into his legs. He undid one and then the other and let them hang loose around Jim's marked thighs. He rolled down Jim's stockings: one leg and then the other. Jim watched him in bemused silence, not struggling now. He pulled the band of lace down Jim's hips, down his thighs, down his long, pale, slender legs and dropped it onto the floor with the rest of the garish costume.

When Jim was naked except for his underwear, Sherlock stepped off the bed and began to undress. At first, Jim watched. Then he knelt up and began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock shed it and let Jim undress the vest underneath. He let them both tumble to the floor together. Then he let Jim undo his trousers. They slid a few inches down his thighs. Jim sat back, eyes fastened to the mound that had formed between Sherlock's thighs again, while he had still been denied his first orgasm that evening.

"Ooh, Sherlock. You're a dirty boy," he said softly. "What am I going to do with you?"

He curled a hand around Sherlock's neck and pulled him towards him. Sherlock couldn't have missed the feverish, uncontrolled need in his eyes, but at that moment he was too overtaken by a thousand licentious desires to pay heed to the warnings his mind was whispering.

Jim pulled him down against him, sliding his arms around Sherlock's neck and pulling his face down so it was barely inches from his. "Kiss me, Sherlock," he said, lifting his mouth up to tease Sherlock's with the gentlest graze. "Kiss me like you know you want to."

Sherlock cupped a hand behind Jim's head and pulled him firmly against him, ravishing Jim's lips before he could ravish his. Jim's hands were in his hair and around his shoulders, wandering and exploring the detective's bare body. Sherlock felt the gentleness of the kiss and was disturbed, but pushed away his concerns.

Instead he broke away and feasted his eyes on his beautiful prize. A most dangerous and vicious mind, a most lovely and delicate beauty. All his.

He forced Jim onto his back. Jim was reluctant to release his mouth and yanked him back down against him into another feverish kiss. This time Jim was triumphant, and tore Sherlock's mouth open in search of complete dominance. Sherlock struggled to keep on his knees to avoid crushing Jim beneath him, but Jim was pulling at him so determinedly that he found himself flush against him within moments.

Their twin erections were pressed almost painfully together. They both broke away to utter the same strangled gasp. Sherlock took the chance to roll off of Jim and get the forgotten lubricant from the desk.

Jim watched him beadily from the bed, leaning back on his elbows. "Not that sticky, sappy shit. I don't want it inside me."

"Then you'll have nothing inside you," Sherlock said shortly, kneeling in front of Jim and motioning for him to turn over.

Jim rolled his eyes dramatically with a sigh, but did as he was told. He rolled onto his stomach, resting his chin on his hands. Sherlock spread his legs wide and coated his length and then his fingers with the gel.

Jim released a very soft breath when he found his entrance, gently pressing inside with his cold, wet fingers. Jim arched his back with a hiss. Sherlock scissored the two fingers inside him, and then slid in a third, listening carefully for any signs that Jim was in pain.

When he pulled out, Jim surprised him by turning abruptly back onto his back. "Like this," he said unsmilingly, offering no explanation.

Sherlock shrugged and didn't argue. He spread Jim's legs wide and rested them either side of him. Jim's hands flew up to catch the bars of the bed. Sherlock gritted his teeth and slowly pushed himself inside of him.

Jim cried out in mingled pain and pleasure, his eyes screwing up tight and then wildly opening again. Sherlock tried to obscure the animalistic groan torn from his throat as he pushed himself deep inside his enemy, but it was impossible to hide it from Jim.

Jim smirked deeply, rocking his hips up in an unnecessarily lewd fashion. "Yes! That's right, Sherlock! _Fuck me_."

Sherlock growled and forced himself deeper into Jim. Jim's legs curled around him, holding him tight against him and almost making it impossible for him to move. "Jim!" he verbally ejaculated, in between desperate breaths.

He leant forward to lean on the bars to support himself and found Jim's hand beneath his. Jim's eyes fluttered up to meet his, his features were violently flushed. "Yes. _Yes_," he whimpered, opening up his fingers so that Sherlock's slid between them.

Sherlock didn't object. He was too overcome with the sensations below to object. He curled his hand around Jim's, held it tightly and let the murderer cling harder and tighter and closer against him as he thrusts began wilder and extremely desperate.

His head was spinning as he seemed to hurtle bodily towards release. He unconsciously began to moan Jim's name, the word becoming just another meaningless characteristic in the rising crescendo between them.

He needed to feel Jim against him, needed to watch him orgasm, needed to see the expression of abject ecstasy on his face and know that _he_ had caused it. That _he _alone knew the depths and heights of this, the most intimate experience anyone could share with another person, with Jim Moriarty.

"Oh! Sh-Sherlock- Oh!" Jim began to moan, his eyes fluttering and his body beginning to thrust with increasing fervour.

There were no theatrics now. Jim was close to oblivion. And Sherlock was too.

He bit his lip fiercely, fighting to keep conscious and at the same time desperate to lose control of every bodily and cognitive function. He locked eyes with Jim, and could almost feel the heat searing from the depth of the man's eyes.

He thrust once more inside of him, hitting Jim's prostate with vicious accuracy. Jim gave a wild writhe below him and then something close to a spasm. He cried Sherlock's name out, out into the silence of the motel room. No one was there to see Jim Moriarty cry Sherlock Holmes's name with nothing more than the purest and most sincere bliss. No one knew of the momentary bond they shared as they reached perfection together.

Sherlock feasted his eyes on his lover's ecstasy. He came moments after, spending his seed deep inside of Jim. He felt it dribble out, onto his thighs and onto the bed covers, but he couldn't care. Not then. He let his fingers slide away from Jim's on the bars of the bed and leant them heavily into the mattress, supporting his shuddering, panting frame with difficulty.

Jim let his hands flop down beside him on the bed. He stared up at Sherlock with a blank, unreadable expression. Sherlock stared back at him, wondering how he had ever come to be the one who had the unprecedented pleasure of seeing Jim Moriarty on his back- glowing, exhausted and spent.

He gently pulled out of him and tumbled onto his back on the cold covers beside him. Jim turned his head towards him, his eyes still desperately seeking his. Sherlock didn't look at him.

They lay there in silence for what to Sherlock could have been a minute or an hour. Time seemed to run off into a meaningless thread. Sherlock stared at the dirty ceiling of the motel and tried not to think. He tried to be satisfied with all the divine pleasures he had experienced that night and not be troubled.

"Jim," he said aloud at last. "Jim, I-"

He broke off. Jim's hand had found its way into his beside him on the bed. He glanced down at it. His longer, callused fingers with Jim's pale, smooth ones.

"Jim," he said tiredly, trying to tug his hand away.

"Just for tonight," Jim said softly, clasping his hands tighter around Sherlock's.

Sherlock hesitated, staring at their joined hands. "Nothing good will come of this," he said quietly, but he didn't pull away.

Jim gently threaded his fingers through his; the sensation sent a delicious shiver down Sherlock's spine. He wished he had the strength to pull away, but he didn't. In every sense of the word.

He looked down at Jim and found him already watching him, his eyes roaming over every inch of Sherlock's face. He leant towards him and pressed a gentle kiss against his lips that Sherlock did not return. The pain had returned to his chest, stronger and deeper than before.

Jim broke away and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder, his hand still entwined with his between them. Sherlock sighed quietly to himself and allowed himself to rest, to sleep, allowed Jim to have his hopeless fantasy, because he knew that happiness for their kind was fleeting, and come morning Jim would be long gone.

End


End file.
